


Resolve

by Alethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Gen, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-10
Updated: 2007-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re asking me if I <i>fondle</i> people with my brain?”</p>
<p>“Well, when you say it like that—”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolve

**Author's Note:**

> Set in season 2 sometime before “All Hell Breaks Loose.” Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/266079.html).

“So, how does it feel? You know, when you do that thing with your mind,” Dean asked, out of the clear blue sky, no warning whatsoever, Mr. Non Sequitur himself.

Sam almost drove into oncoming traffic. Because that was exactly what he needed: Dean asking uncomfortable questions _and_ refusing to let him drive ever again, how _dare_ you hurt his baby.

The car honks almost drowned out Dean’s, “Hey, watch it!” But not quite. Dean grunted beside him, petting—swear to God, _petting_ —the dashboard. What, was he gonna purr at it next?

“Jeez, give a guy a head’s up, will you?” Sam growled right back. He shifted in his seat. His clothes were sticking to him uncomfortably, he noticed. Probably the adrenaline rush from almost plowing head-on into a Honda Civic.

Not that he would have been the worse-for-wear in that confrontation, but still. Maybe if he said that out loud Dean would get distracted.

Hmm.

“What, you flip out when I ask you one stupid question? Should we pull over and talk about our feelings?”

“Why would you ask me that?” he shot back.

Dean reared back, looking at him like he needed to break out the straight jacket. Which they had, by the way. “It was just a question. Jeez, turn into a girl, why don’t you?”

Sam gritted his teeth, gripped the wheel, and stayed silent.

“And don’t hurt my car,” Dean said, like refusal was apt to start a blood feud.

The car rumbled around them, almost a shiver.

Then again, a blood feud might be too mild a retribution in Dean’s world.

***

The thing about Dean was that he was smart. Funny how people underestimated him. They’d look at him and think ‘pretty,’ which they’d then equate with ‘stupid.’ Dean made the whole thing hilarious, as was his wont, and no one really spent enough time with him to know the truth, but Dean really wasn’t. Stupid, that was. He could be a jackass and a dumbass and a whole lot of other things that ended with ‘ass,’ but he was smart.

And when he asked a question, he had a reason for asking and he wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied.

Dean’s tenacity was turning out to be Sam’s Annoyance of the Week.

“So, you said that it felt like a punch, like you punched out of that closet. Could you feel it anywhere?” Dean swirled his fork in the air, indicating Sam’s body? Maybe? Hard to tell some days.

“I have no idea what you’re going on about,” Sam hedged, picking at his sandwich. At least he wasn’t about to up and kill them both when Dean asked. Which Dean probably planned, come to think.

Then again, with this conversation, would death be so bad?

“Like, if I punch my little brother for being a jackass,” he demonstrated, leaning over the table and gifting Sam with a solid punch to the arm, “I feel it in my hand and my arm and shoulder. When you opened the door, did you feel it anywhere?”

“What, like my brain?” Sam mocked, just lightly.

Dean had developed some immunity to his mocking. It was quite unfortunate. “You and I both know that we feel everything because of our brains so, no, and by the way, you’re pathetically unfunny.”

Huh. Apparently Dean actually listened and remembered some of the things Sam said. That was kind of surprising.

Dean shot him an affronted look. “Oh, stop gaping. I listen. Sometimes.”

“Um, yeah. I guess.”

“So,” Dean said obviously, like he was the most freakin’ annoying interrogation subject in the history of the universe, “did you feel it?”

Sam could take exception…or he could answer Dean and get him to shut the hell up. “No. I didn’t feel it in my arm or anything. But I did feel it. Like, I felt the pressure against the door. The way it eased off when it finally moved. It was almost like me—all of me—was pushing against the door, not with a specific body part, but with the whole…” He trailed off. It really was like his whole essence was doing it, not one specific body part. Was that your soul?

Another diner coughed and Sam came back to himself, blinking. Dean stared at him intently, fork forgotten halfway to his mouth.

“What?” Sam asked.

“You got this wispy, dreamy chick face when you were talking about that. Is that your come face? ‘Cause, dude, I don’t need to see that.”

Sam fell back against the booth, leaning his head back and looking to the ceiling. He didn’t care that his shoulders were all bunched up against the hard plastic. He didn’t care that he was way too tall to be doing this and his knees were already knocking into Dean’s. If he didn’t look at Dean, maybe Dean wouldn’t say things like that. His strategy could so make this day go away. It _could_.

Across from him he heard Dean reach over and steal some fries, popping them into his mouth and chewing loudly.

***

“If you can feel it when you use your psycho mind thingamajig…do you think you could feel people up with it?”

“What?!” Sam asked, turning in his seat and staring at his brother. And staring some more.

Who, given all the shit coming down on them, thought up _that_?

Dean glanced at him and then back to the road, all defensive now. “What what? I’m just asking.”

“If I can feel people up,” Sam clarified.

“Yeah.” Sam continued to stare. “What?” Dean asked. The highway lights they drove under lit Dean and then shrouded him darkness. Light dark, light dark, light dark. 

Sam suddenly felt illuminated.

“This is what you’ve been chewing on for the last three days?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t that rank gum you tried to poison me with.”

“I did not—you took it out of—stop trying to distract me.”

“Would I do that?” Dean asked innocently. He looked over on an eyebrow waggle, lit up brilliantly by the lights, care of a more civilized suburb, and Sam could just joke with him…or he could take it seriously and—

“You’re asking me if I _fondle_ people with my brain?”

“Well, when you say it like that—”

“I do not violate their—”

“Oh, would you stop being so dramatic? I’m talking about testing your powers. Experimentation, if you will.”

“How would you like to be experimented on?” Sam grumbled.

“You want to fondle me? Why, Sammy, I had no idea.”

“Hate you.”

Dean made kissy noises at him.

Hated him _so_ much.

***

“No, but, c’mon, you mean you never tried it?”

Stubborn had nothing on Dean. “To feel up a girl with my mind? No, I can’t say that I have.”

“You are a liar. Or you tried it on a guy and you’re trying to get around it by being female-specific. Oh, I just had a horrible thought: I drive and give you lots of time to ogle guys out the window. You’re not, you know, doing that are you?”

Holy God, he was going to kill his brother. No jury would convict him. 

“Five second ago you were practically drooling over the idea that I could feel up some chick’s boobs and now you’re all horrified that I might do it to a guy. Do you know what you are? A hypocrite. Also, possibly homophobic. I haven’t decided.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

“Am not!”

It kind of devolved from there.

***

Dean smacked his shoulder. “Hey, try it on her.” He nodded to a blonde fairly well busting out of her top. Her bra straps clashed with her tank, he noticed.

They were supposed to be doing research, scoring off Starbucks and its lovely wi-fi. They were not supposed to be finding girls for Sam to serially abuse.

“No,” Sam said, looking back down to Dad’s journal. It was being absolutely no help in cross-referencing this—

“Oh, come on,” Dean whined.

“Nope,” Sam said, staring at the pages of the journal. Maybe the scribbles—let’s be honest—would morph and somehow give him the answer. That might be a power he’d use on a daily basis. Why couldn’t he have gotten that power?

“Pretty please?” Dean wheedled, like he was asking for the last Pop Tart and knew he was just adorable enough to get it.

Sam resisted the urge to laugh. Or give in. “Not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just try it.”

“No,” Sam sing-songed.

Dean grunted. “And you say _I’m_ annoying.”

***

“About this resistance to using your powers thing. We gotta talk,” Dean began. He sat on the bed across from Sam and looked for all the world like he were conducting an intervention.

“You mean the resistance to violating people’s right not to be manhandled throughout the day? That resistance?”

Dean nodded. “Yes, yes that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Oh, do continue.” Sam crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned back against the headboard. This ought to be good.

“All I’m saying is that you’ve got funky powers and by God, you should take advantage of them.”

“Oh, is _that_ all you’re saying? Well, then, I guess we’re done here.” Sam snapped his book shut pointedly.

Dean made a little moue, thinking. “Is it the consent thing? That’s what’s getting you all riled up? Fine, we can take care of that. Try it on me.”

Sam blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Try it on me. C’mon, I can take it. I officially give you permission, except don’t feel me up or anything because that would be weird.” Dean straightened his posture, like he would brave even that, by God.

“Ugh, God. Okay, that’s gonna stay in my brain for a while. Thank you.”

Dean made the ‘bring it’ gesture and looked at him expectantly.

“What? What are you—I can’t just turn it on,” Sam protested. He shifted on the bed, feeling the springs creak under him. 

Dean peered at him like there was something wrong, which didn’t help Sam with the whole trying to be normal thing. “Why not?” He scanned Sam some more, trying to find the source of the problem since the whole consent thing was out of the way.

Maybe Sam should ask for caviar and truffles. The extra-special necessities of evil doers everywhere. 

Then again…Dean might actually go get them.

“It takes…work and effort and I have to really want it.”

Dean put two and two together in his head. Smart. “And you don’t really want to touch me, got it. Fine. I can take care of that, too.” He grinned.

With that he left, kind of ominously if you asked Sam. He was probably right to be a little worried.

***

Dean walked back in…followed by a high-heeled, gum-smacking, cleavage-baring blonde with a big smile that said Dean had already been plying her with quite a bit of the Winchester charm.

“And this is my baby brother.”

“Ooh, he’s so cute,” she gushed, sashaying up to him and kind of gigging as she scrutinized him.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. Was he supposed to introduce himself or something? Say ‘hi?’ Make small talk about the weather, the current movie releases, the falling price of cocaine? 

God, _awkward_. 

Seeing as Dean was just twiddling his thumbs over there, Sam stood up and smiled politely. He offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Sam,” he said.

“Giselle.” She giggled again. “You’re right, Dean. He’s a perfect gentleman. He hasn’t even glanced at my boobs again.”

“What’d I tell you?” Dean shook his head, ‘cause yeah, that _would_ be a foreign concept to him. Then again, Dean could make it into some kind of charming one-liner that would land him in bed whereas at the end of the day Sam was just staring at your boobs. 

“You were right.” She tossed her hair and looked back at Dean, _something_ passing between them with a look. Sam so didn’t need to see that look.

Dean nodded at Sam. “He’s the one I was telling you about.”

“Really?” she squealed. Then she was practically on top of him, blonde hair swinging, Pepto Bismol pink nails pressing carefully into his shirt. “Dean tells me you can get a girl off without even touching her. Is that true?”

Hated his brother _so much_.

***

“Oh, c’mon, I totally set you up there. All you had to do was spike it.”

“Volleyball metaphors? Really?” Sam stuffed some more clothes into his bag. Violently. The seams might have creaked. 

“I was gonna use dick metaphors but figured you’d want the G-rated version. Pussy.” Dean just sat there, tossing a knife from hand to hand, discussing Sam’s utter humiliation like it was something they did every day. 

Actually, this week? Pretty much. More reason to really grind his boxers into the side pocket, then.

“Oh, stop abusing your bag. It didn’t do anything. You really want to let out that aggression, bring it over here. Hey, use the thingamajig on me. You know you want to smack me upside the head right now.” 

He really did. But he was a Winchester and therefore stubborn enough to refuse to give Dean that satisfaction.

“Why are you so insistent, anyway? What is with this sudden obsession of yours?” Sam asked.

Dean shot out of his seat on a dime. His stance went intent and he pointed at Sam with the knife. “Because you’re treating it like it’s evil. Like it should only be used as a last resort. I’m saying it doesn’t have to be a life-or-death situation. It doesn’t have to be a dark, shameful thing. It doesn’t have to be a cross to bear. You’re so freakin’ melodramatic sometimes.”

Sam breathed out, which turned into a desperate laugh. “That’s what all this has been about? You’ve pestered me and embarrassed me and all because you want me to use my freaky powers more?”

Apparently, Dean felt it was now time for the soft touch. He tempered his tone and pointed the knife away. “Look, you have powers for a reason,” he said, like that was so reasonable it was just _obvious_ Sam should agree with him. 

“Yeah, a _bad_ reason. A very bad, death-dealing, brain-eating, I-want-to-drink-your-blood kind of reason.”

Dean had the temerity to roll his eyes. “Jesus, would you quit it? Just because you have them it doesn’t make ‘em evil. It’s how you use them.” Dean shook his head, all ‘my brother’s being an idiot, let me list the ways,’ and continued on, “Isn’t this exactly the kind of argument you love to make? You can use them to feel up some girl or get her off that much quicker or whatever. It doesn’t have to be to save my life or yours or anyone’s. It doesn’t have to be about that.”

Sam just stared at his brother, his brother who was trying to make some kind of philosophical point about the nature of abilities…using sex as his main example, by the by.

Sam shook his head once. And laughed.

“What?” Dean asked, suspicious and present and _vibrant_ against the peeling paisley wallpaper.

“You are something else.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, like he didn’t know whether that was an insult or not. Sam just wandered over and clapped him companionably on the shoulder.

“I promise that next time there’s a girl worthwhile enough to try it on, I will.” Was it weird to be talking about his sex life with his brother? It felt weird.

Dean looked way too happy right now. That was definitely weird.

“Really?”

“Yes. Happy now?” Which was a redundant question since Sam could _see_ it, but it was more to make a point than anything else.

Dean looked into his eyes, measuring his honesty, and then he broke that connection, looking out the window. Probably at his car. His lips twitched and he turned back to Sam with a truly mischievous expression on his face, the one that had them streaking through corn fields for pride and, well, God only knew. “No, now I want you to steal me beer.”

Sam just rolled his eyes and pushed away from him, expecting it. Well, maybe not that, but _something_ illegal or immoral. “You know that’s not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s wrong.”

“Oh, don’t get all ethical on me. Think of it as an issue of liberty. You’re liberating the beer, Sammy. It wants to be free.”

Supremely against his will, Sam laughed. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t kill his brother. Today.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
